


August, Revisited

by ottermo



Series: Fandot Creativity [16]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Fandot Creativity, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 05:29:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12204810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ottermo/pseuds/ottermo
Summary: August FCN fills. So far: a floral gift, a naming ceremony, a Humans fusion, a funeral and...a highchair.





	1. Flowers

 

She opened the door of her suite to find a huge flower arrangement on legs, standing in the hallway - a pretty ghastly arrangement of bright oranges and garish pinks that was definitely more showy than actually impressive.

“Hello,” Theresa said politely to the flowers, since whoever was carrying them was completely invisible behind their gargantuan form.

“My Princess,” came the regrettably unmistakable, slimy voice of Baron Constantin Schellenberg. “Please accept this small gift. A token of my affections.”

Theresa raised her eyebrows. Small, was it? “Thank you,” she said, guardedly. “Will you come in to set it down, or shall I…”

She held out her hands in order to take it from him, and very awkwardly he transferred the ungainly pot to her. Their hands brushed together just barely, and she thought she heard him give a dreamy sigh. Theresa rolled her eyes, glad she couldn’t be seen under the cover of the jungle he considered a ‘small gift’.

“I shall leave you to enjoy them,” said the Baron fondly, “And to think of me whenever you catch their scent. Farewell, my Princess.”

As soon as he was gone, Theresa kicked vaguely at the door to shut it and began to laugh uncontrollably, staggering blindly across the room and yelling to Martin as she went.

“Come and help me with this monstrosity, Martin, I can’t even see where the table is!”

He rolled out from his Very Secure hiding place under her bed, and leapt up to help her plant the offending object on a low coffee table. They both stood their laughing at it afterwards. It was honestly the most ugly thing they’d ever seen.

“I know I’m not an _expert_ on what constitutes romance,” Martin said eventually, “But next to this, a trip to an air museum is looking pretty good.”

She plucked one of the flowers from its stalk and balanced it on top of his head. “Nothing Baron Idiot does comes anywhere close to you, Darling. What is it Arthur calls him? Baron Shellburger?”

“Smellyburger, last I heard. But in fairness to Arthur, he’s not being mean. I think he honestly thinks that’s the right name.”

“We should have them both to dinner sometime.”

Martin groaned. “Oh, don’t even joke. The Baron doesn’t need any more encouragement.” He rubbed at his arm, where it had been squashed underneath him while he hid. “I thought it was your mother. I can’t believe I got a bruise hiding from Smellyburger.”

She giggled. “Next time, I’ll send you to the door. You can be the one buried in Flower Demons.”

He snapped off another flower and poked it through her hair in form of retaliation.

Damn it, she almost made it look nice.

 


	2. Curls

 

Arthur was all but bouncing up and down when she — no, on closer inspection, he actually _was_ , he was bouncing up and down with excitement as Carolyn drove in through the top gate. He followed her, springing, as far as he could, then broke into a run when it became obvious that she wasn’t going to slow down and give him the news.

When she drew to a stop outside the barn and got out of the van, he was by her side in an instant. “Did you get him? Have we got him? Can I see him?”

“As soon as you’re out of the way, I can let him out,” she remarked, and he eagerly scuttled out of her path.

She strolled round to the back of the cattle van, and opened the door. The bull regarded them amiably. He was a magnificent creature, well worth the modest sum she’d parted with at the auction. A Hereford bull, his coat a deep chestnut brown, except for his head, which was creamy white. The hair on his face was longer than the rest, and—

“Mum! He’s got _curls_!” Arthur said in delight. “He has a curly forehead! Brilliant.” He turned to her beseechingly. “Have you remembered the promise?”

Carolyn looked grim. “Yes.”

“And have you got your list?”

By means of a straight fortnight of washing up, Arthur had bought the right to name the new bull anything he liked, outside of a blacklist provided by Carolyn.

“Yes. He is not going to be called Curly, or Curls, or anything that alludes to his face.”

“Okay.”

“And nothing with an internal rhyme.”

“A what?”

“Nothing that rhymes with itself.”

It was Carolyn’s opinion that a farm which already boasted a sheepdog named ‘Snoopadoop’ ought not to make a habit of such whimsy.

“Oh, okay. Is that it?”

“…yes,” she said, after a moment’s thought. “Do your worst.”

“I’d rather do my best,” Arthur said, seriously. “And I’ve been thinking of this for a while. He’s going to be called Toby.”

Carolyn raised her eyebrows. “Oh. I needn’t have worried, then. That’s quite ordinary.”

“Short for Toblerone.”

“Ah. Well.”

“Though he’s lovely and fat, isn’t he? Really more round than triangular.”

“Were you expecting me to come home with a triangular bull, oh Son of Mine?”

“No, I thought that was probably too much to hope for.”

Carolyn chuckled, and led Toby the bull down the ramp and towards his new home.

 


	3. Android

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold, a Humans fusion! Was I ever going to do anything with this prompt other than this? No.

 

He assumed they would get rid of him as soon as possible. He had lied to them since the very first day of his employment, after all. Well, deceived them, at any rate. Nobody had ever directly asked “Douglas, are you a synth?”, so technically he hadn’t _lied_.

When Carolyn had interrogated him about the whiskey and found out that he never actually drunk it, he’d been terrified that she knew the truth and was testing him, but that had turned out to be nothing. Now, though. Now he’d gone and done it.

He didn’t blame Arthur, not really, but it did seem unfair that Douglas’s entire livelihood be taken away just because the boy couldn’t look where he was going. He’d nearly been mown down by Mrs Birling’s car, and Douglas’s flawless reactions had sent him flying in front before he could stop himself. That would have been fine - he was good at everything, of course he had great reflexes - but the car had hit him quite squarely, and naturally instead of bleeding or bruising or just plain dying, he’d leaked bright blue synth fluid all over the place and set his arm nicely out of its metal socket.

You couldn’t really explain that away.

They’d wheeled him into the portacabin on a baggage trolley and left him to charge, evidently. He’d shut down rather than have to listen to Carolyn’s anger and Arthur’s confusion and Martin’s jeering. Someone had applied a skin pack to the worst of his contusions, and it had already healed. He must have been charging for a good few hours before his consciousness had kicked in again.

A box of additional skin packs had been left out for him. Douglas pushed his arm back into place, gritting his teeth as his circuits fired pain at him from all angles. With the arm misaligned, they couldn’t tell where the sensation was coming from, so they’d evidentially decided to go with “everywhere”. He tested the arm by using it to pick up some of the skin packs, and was pleased to find it was responsive. A small comfort, in face of his impending dismissal and, if Carolyn was as angry as she was bound to be, his eventual recycling.

Douglas ran a check for the locations of his other contusions, and began applying the packs. When he was halfway through, he heard a hushed whisper in the doorway. “He’s awake.”

He looked up. Arthur and Martin were standing there, watching him with something like fascination.

He didn’t know what to say. A sarcastic comment about their unabashed curiosity seemed out of place, now. He had no right to speak to them like that, officially. He shouldn’t even have the _ability_ to do it.

“Are you okay?” Arthur asked, coming closer. “I’m really sorry. That was all my fault. I didn’t see the car at all.”

“I’d gathered,” said Douglas, wincing as a contusion knitted itself shut. He was confused by Arthur’s gentle tone, but then, perhaps the boy didn’t understand the difference between human interaction and the type of instructional language you used with synths.

“You were brilliant, though,” Arthur continued. “You saved my life!”

Douglas frowned up at him, then past him, at Martin. “Has he, somehow, managed to get a concussion despite my best efforts?”

“No, we’re…” Martin fumbled for a way to put it. “We’re just… surprised.”

Douglas gave a short, dark laugh. He’d gone to great lengths to code his different laughter programmes, so they might as well have one last, ironic outing before he was sold for scrap. “Don’t bother to soften the blow, Martin. You don’t owe me that. Is she going to sell me? Or just let me go?”

Martin looked genuinely shocked. “Neither, Douglas. Like Arthur said, you saved his life.” He came into the room properly. “I don’t think she’d let you go even if you wanted to. Although you might have some explaining to do. You’re… clearly you’re conscious, somehow. That’s supposed to be impossible.”

Douglas was stunned.

“She could get a lot of money for the discovery,” he managed eventually. “There are scientists in America…”

“There are scientists everywhere,” Arthur said wisely, “But we wouldn’t trust any of them with you. You’re special. And you’re ours.”

“If you want to be,” Martin said quickly. “I…. Arthur isn’t saying we _own_ you…”

“I know what he meant,” Douglas said quietly. After a pause, he added, “Thank you.”

Perhaps they were humouring him while Carolyn called synth ops. Perhaps they were buying time while they plotted a course for the airport nearest to the highest bidder.

Or perhaps…

He hardly dared think it, but perhaps they really meant that he could stay.

 


	4. Fish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death mention. But, um...

 

The funeral, a brief affair,  
Was held that afternoon.  
The mourners listened solemnly  
As Fergus sang a tune,   
They prayed that Holy Cod above  
Would take into his keeping  
The sole of their departed friend   
Who sadly now was sleeping.  
They swam unhappy circles,  
Shaking fins with all who came,  
And saying, “What a tragedy,  
A waste of life. A shame.”   
They never knew the culprit,  
For they never met his eyes  
They only saw the weapon   
Which had fallen from the skies:  
And there upon his tombstone,  
It is written: “Here lies Rick,  
His life was taken from him   
By the dreaded Sugar Brick.”

 


	5. Chair/Linger

 

It’s a _masterpiece_ , and that’s coming from Martin, who’s a perfectionist and thus doesn’t throw that word around easily. The wood is a beautiful, rich colour, and the curves of the back of the chair are smooth and symmetrical. Even so, Douglas seems to look at it with a critical air.

“Will it do?” he asks, apparently oblivious to the stupidity of that question.

Theresa is the first one able to speak. “It’s marvellous, Douglas,” she says. “It will _more_ than do.”

“…because I can keep it at mine if you think home-made is a bit low brow for the palace,” Douglas continues, as if he hasn’t heard her. “That is, assuming she’ll be visiting regularly enough to warrant—”

“No!” Martin says quickly, then checks himself. “I mean, of course she’ll be visiting, as often as you like, and you’re welcome to keep the chair at yours if you want to, but it wouldn’t be because it’s not good enough. It’s beautiful.”

Douglas looks bashful, an expression that does not sit well on his face. “Well, Arthur helped. Quite a lot, actually. I based it on his design, and one of the arms was entirely his work.”

Martin peers closer. “I can’t tell which,” he says, feeling a bit mean that he’s surprised.

“No. He’s quite the little protégé. I’m going to miss our little woodworking sessions. By the way, you can’t tell Carolyn. Arthur’s working on his first solo project for her, and he wants it to be a complete surprise. Severed limbs and all. No, I’m joking, he’s actually got a flair for it.”

“Noted. We won’t say a word.”

Martin steps back from the highchair to take the whole thing in at once. “It’s so lovely, this. I can’t wait to try it out.”

Douglas gives a wry smile. “I was meaning it for the baby, really, Martin…”

Theresa giggles, and Martin looks confused for a second, before it clicks. “Ah. Yes, very funny. Obviously I meant ‘trying it out’ by putting Aida in it.” He shoots a glance at the nearby nursery door. “Do you think…”

“No,” Theresa says firmly, giving him a chastening prod in the side. “We’re not waking her up early.” She smiles. “But the Master Carpenter is of course welcome to stay for as long as it takes her to wake up by herself.”

“Do you know, I think I might,” says Douglas, following them through to the sitting room, though not before casting one last lingering glance over his handiwork, as if determined to find a flaw in it somewhere.

Martin notices, and grins. Somehow it means more, the fact that Douglas extended his already vast comfort zone to make Aida a truly special gift.

Now, if only the youngest princess of Liechtenstein will resist the temptation to spread her breakfast over it daily…

 


End file.
